


I Just Wanna Dance With You

by vanete_druse



Category: The Unit
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Implied starvation and dehydration, Light Angst, M/M, Memory flashbacks, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-07
Updated: 2014-08-07
Packaged: 2018-02-12 03:34:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2094174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanete_druse/pseuds/vanete_druse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Hector finds himself captured overseas, there's little he can do except to hold out long enough for the rest of the team.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Just Wanna Dance With You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lineadecuatro (Maiucha)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maiucha/gifts).



> So, I don't really have any explanation for this. It's _supposed_ to be a prompt fill for lineadcuatro, who asked for "Apodyopis - The act of mentally undressing someone" from Hector's POV. But it kind of took on a mind of its own and wandered a very long way away from that. I hope you still enjoy anyways darling!
> 
> I'm really quite terrible at endings, and this entire piece is unbeta'ed. Please let me know if anything feels wrong or off!
> 
> And yes, the title is a reference to the unnamed pop song ;D I don't really feel like it fits that well but I couldn't figure out what else to name this. If you guys have any better suggestions I am all ears :)

The room is dark and out of focus when Hector awakes with a start, uncertain of the time or his location, and he reacts the only way he knows - defensively, simultaneously attempting to pick himself up off of what he believes is the ground and to lunge at the dark figure of a man in the corner.

The man rushes forward with his arms outstretched, and Hector _swears_ there’s a gun in his hands, immediately reaching out to engage in hand to hand combat in the hopes of gaining control or at least being able to disarm his enemy to equalize the fight.

It’s almost as if this man can read Hector’s mind, because each of his moves are quickly countered, and it isn’t until he’s grabbed by arms and shaken a little that he’s able to see that his enemy isn’t really an enemy at all. “…Hector, _Hector!_ It’s me. Carlito. You’re safe now, you can relax. Get back in bed.”

Everything becomes sharp and clear once again at the sound of his team member’s voice, and suddenly he drinks in everything he had originally missed; the clean white sheets, the smell of polished floors and disinfectant, the gentle beep of hospital machinery.

He’s almost ripped the IV straight out of his arm in his struggle, and he readjusts it himself before shakily climbing back into the bed, only now registering the softness of the mattress. “Isn’t visitor hours over by now? It’s the middle of the night.”

Charlie pours him a glass of water at the sound of the scratchiness of his voice, and Hector gladly accepts, drinking it down in one long gulp as the effects of dehydration start to kick in. Thankfully he’s still too weak to pour the water himself and Charlie knows better than to keep refilling, no matter how thirsty Hector is, to prevent him from over drinking. “I told them we were distant cousins. They can’t kick family out.”

Just the thought of Charlie refusing to leave the chair, his arms crossed and shaking his head, curls bouncing as he _insists_ on their shared blood is, for some reason, ludicrous to Hector and makes him laugh, despite the pain this causes in his throat and chest. This alarms the shorter man, who comes to sit on the side of his bed and do the preliminary checks like the professional medic that he is. “You should really get some more rest now, Hector. You need to heal.”

"Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you were the doctor now," Hector jokes, but the second his head hits the pillow again, he begins to fade, his eyelids incapable of staying open despite all his willpower to stay awake, in this moment, with Charlie…

The last thing he feels is the warmth of Charlie’s hand pressing down onto his, his last movement raising his index finger to rub weakly against the warm palm, before falling back asleep.

*

_1 week earlier_

It’s only supposed to be a standard mission, the kind of mission he’s been on so many times he can practically do it in his sleep; protective detail of a Very Important Politician in a not so safe place.

Three days of playing babysitter is all he needs to do, before said politician puts themselves on a plane right back home and he can go back to his team, the men who actually have his back as opposed to the hodge podge of FBI and Secret Service the State Department has hastily thrown together for the job.

"I really don’t have a good feeling about the motorcade through the town square," he says on the second day, tapping his fingers against the plans set on the table during debriefing. "I think we should take an alternate route. This feels too exposed."

"This route has been vetted. We’ll be fine," one of the other guards responds dismissively, waving his hand a bit as if the matter is now closed. Hector looks back down at the plans, already tracing an alternate route in his mind. "It’s _fine_ ,” the guard snaps, and it’s clear by the silence in the room that he has no friends and no authority in this matter, and is forced to drop it all together.

The second he hears the shellfire, he can’t help but take a second to click his tongue and think to himself, _I knew it_ , before Combat Mode kicks in, and he’s pulling his own weapon and shoving the politician to the floor of the vehicle.

Everything’s a blur for the next minute or so. He remembers seeing the rocket launcher, almost camouflaged in a thicket of bushes that the shooter was hiding behind, and calling for an immediate evacuation of the car. He remembers running out of bullets and dropping the gun without a second thought, picking up a machine gun off of one of the dead terrorists. He remembers pushing the politician down yet _again_ behind a large, steady tree on the other side of the road, but because of the range of the gun and his position, the only way to effectively take out the man with the rocket launcher would be to return back to the now smoking car. He remembers hiking the gun up on his shoulder, and punching the trigger, as quickly and as accurately as he could possibly manage, at the same moment as the man pulls the trigger on his rocket launcher.

After that, he has no memory until he wakes up with his face in a bucket of water, the air in his lungs shockingly low. The men holding him bring him up suddenly, and he can’t help but gasp, taking in ragged breaths as one of them leans in and hisses, “Good morning, sleeping beauty,” in his ear.

_Well, isn’t this lovely,_ Hector thinks to himself as his captors leave him on the cement ground of the cell, hands still tied behind his back.

*

"You’re keeping the senator in a safe house. Tell us where that is and we’ll release you."

Hector doesn’t say anything in response, just glares up at the man standing in front of him. Impatiently he clicks his fingers, but Hector is expecting this, bracing himself for the sudden shock of cold water, making sure to override the panic centers in his mind, holding his breath during each dunk.

It’s exhausting, certainly, but nothing he hasn’t trained for before. His shirt is drenched but he pretends not to notice, simply reverting to his emotionless glare the second he’s brought back up for air. His interrogator almost looks puzzled as he surveys him, thoughtfully rubbing his chin. “We’ve been at this for 3 hours now, and you still haven’t said a word. You’re not really from the FBI like your credentials suggest, are you?”

The time lapse concerns Hector - it hasn’t felt like 3 hours, and it isn’t good that he’s losing his sense of time - but he figures it’s probably a trick, a way to get Hector to start panicking at the amount of time he’s been in captivity. “No matter. I can do this all night long if need be. But I think the question is, can _you_?”

So, it’s going to be a long interrogation, Hector realizes now, refusing to acknowledge the numbness in his legs as he continues to kneel, back straight and head held high.

“Now let’s try this again. _Where_ is the senator’s safe house? _Who_ are you really?”

Question, dunk. Question, dunk. This happens so many times that Hector begins to fade a little, lets himself slip away from the situation in order to last just a little bit longer.

He finds himself back home, on the couch…

_…Charlie’s beside him, playing Call of Duty. Hector laughs every time Charlie misses a shot in the game. “Man, what were you_ doing _during all our training? Sleeping?”_

_“Oh, shut up! This controller is terrible, I swear!”_

_“Mhm, right. It’s the controller’s fault, of course.”_

_They stare at each other for a minute, and Charlie clicks pause on the game before picking up a pillow and launching himself at Hector, aiming for his face to smother him, but the taller man is too quick – knowing that Charlie will put too much of his weight into the attack, he easily deflects and throws him off balance, resulting in the pillow rocketing towards the television and Charlie falling against his chest, trapping him a little awkwardly against the sofa._

_The seconds tick by, where neither of them move, just looking at each other, and Hector reaches out to push some curls behind Charlie’s ear, but the second his fingers come into contact with his hair, he pushes off and rights himself quickly, picking up the controller once again as if nothing has happened at all._

_“I’m gonna get this guy, I swear,” Charlie insists, as Hector slowly pushes himself back into a sitting position…_

When Hector fades back into reality, he realizes he’s alone, laying in the dark, his face numb. The only window is a small rectangle, barred, up farther than he can reach by himself, and the door is reinforced steel.

_I’ll think of a plan tomorrow,_ he tells himself, and curls up in a ball to sleep – he figures he’s going to need all of his energy in the coming days.

*

The next morning, Hector is awakened from the bang of the door hitting the wall, and his first thought of the day is _Oh god no_ as he recognizes the dull ache of fever pains spreading throughout his bones.

Of course, this entirely explains his lethargy, his lack of sharp thinking and entirely unacceptable disassociating. But there’s not much he can do about this; illness in the field, with this amount of stress, is always a possibility, and he _knows_ he needs to work through this, he _knows_ he has it within him to formulate and execute his own personal escape plan.

Knowing these things doesn’t make it any easier, though. And there’s a part of him that is holding out hope that the rest of the unit will be catching up to him soon enough so he’s not forced to do this by himself.

His captor grabs him, pulls him to his feet and smiles wide at him. “Ready for another round?”

Surprisingly, Hector is marched past the large water tub, instead to an adjacent room housing nothing but chains, and a stool. “Step up.”

A sudden anger flashes in Hector’s chest and he doesn’t think, simply spits in the man’s face and earns himself a hearty beating against his face and chest for his efforts.

It takes another man, but they finally get him onto the stool, and chained up, left to hang precariously by his arms and neck, only the balls of his feet resting on the stool.

“All you have to do to step down is tell us what we want to know. Where is the safe house? Who are you?”

Hector has nothing to attempt to pick the cuffs with, no way to maneuver to slip from them. At least the balls of his feet are steady on the stool, and so long as he continues to stand straight and doesn’t move, he’s perfectly balanced in the chains.

Thinking too deeply about it will cause him to move. His interrogator sits on a chair in the corner, reading a book, his rifle resting on the floor beside him, waiting for Hector to crack. The door, like all the others in this place, is reinforced steel. There are no windows.

This has just become a waiting game. They won’t risk killing him yet, not when his information is still pertinent – and if they’ve implemented the emergency plan like they should’ve, it would be relevant for the next four days – and so long as he just stands still and doesn’t talk, they won’t risk any permanent damage just yet and will move him to another technique soon enough.

But that’s just the problem, standing still. His arms, weakened by the fever, are already going numb, and all he wants to do is put them down, to lay his body down on to the cold cement and sleep…

Hector allows himself to close his eyes and instead envision himself sitting on the side of a bed…

_…in the hotel room he’s sharing with Charlie; just through the adjoining door is where Bob and Mack are staying. Normally during an operation that door would be open, and the two rooms would be turned into a command center, but the two groups are supposed to be undercover and entirely unaware of each other, and they can’t risk a cleaning lady accidentally walking in on the four of them together._

_Bob and Mack have the luxury of pretending to be brothers. If anyone seems to question this, they’ve already fixed it to have the explanation of being half-brothers, both taking more after their respective fathers than their shared mother, but so far nobody has even batted an eyelash once the suggestion has been proposed._

_Figuring out an explanation for Charlie and Hector had been slightly more difficult, and perhaps if they were given more time they could’ve thought of something innocuous, but of_ course _the mission was a rushed one, and they had needed to spend ultimately more time outlining the mechanics of it than their covers. Once Bob had offered up, “Oh, just be a married couple! It’s legal in Spain,” it was unofficially accepted by all, as the topic immediately shifted to the more important aspect of their planning._

_It’s not until the plane ride in, after everything is settled and everybody knows their roles, that the ribbing starts by Mack, who’s smirking and congratulating them on_ finally _recognizing their latent feelings for each other and doing something about that, and when Hector laughs it sounds hollow in his own ears._

_When Charlie touches his shoulder, he jumps about a mile, turning around to see the other man kneeling on the edge of his bed, looking at him with amusement. “It’s just me, man. Who are you expecting, Al Qaeda?”_

_“Guess I’m just a little on edge,” Hector responds, and Charlie smiles, inching himself closer and taking his face in his hands._

_“I can help with that,” He murmurs, leaning down, about to press his lips against Hector’s…_

_“We don’t have to do this here,” Hector whispers, imperceptibly attempting to pull away, “We’re alone.”_

_“Haven’t you thought about it, though? No one will care, you know, about us…we’re untouchable here,” Charlie says, and Hector’s not really sure if he means just in this moment, when they have the excuse of the maintaining their cover, or if he means in the Unit, where privacy is of the utmost concern, and certain rules are overlooked so long as a soldier is otherwise fit for duty. It doesn’t really matter, he figures, as his own arms are wrapping themselves around Charlie’s waist to pull him close of their own accord, and Charlie’s kissing him, so deeply that everything else fades into the background._

_It’s thrilling, and he supposes that’s what drew him to the Unit in the first place – the thrill of the secrecy, the pressure, the risk, the knowledge that he and his brothers in arms are literally saving the country every single day they’re in the field. And now_ this _, which could easily jeopardize all of that, kicking him straight out of the military and on to his ass if they’re not careful enough, if their teammates aren’t as accepting as they hope, if any outsider gets a little bit too curious and brings it to the attention of their superiors…_

_Hector isn’t_ really _thinking about any of this, it’s just a pinprick in the back of his mind as one hand curls into Charlie’s hair as their make out session continues, a little frantic in their excitement. The shorter man has settled down into his lap, one hand gently working at his belt buckle..._

The clanking of the chains brings him back to the present, and Hector opens his eyes to see his interrogator unlocking the cuffs. For a split second they stare at each other, and Hector thinks he even sees a slight look of remorse in the other man’s eyes.

But the moment passes quickly, and he is too weak to question this, collapsing right onto the ground the moment his restraints are gone. They might have called the guards to put him back in his original cell, but he’s already too far gone to notice.

*

When his captors notice him shivering, they burst in with a hose, circling around him, ripping the clothes off of him as he attempts to feebly fight back. “You aren’t _sick_ , are you?” They taunt, their laughter echoing off of the stone walls.

Hector barely makes a noise as they spray him with cold water, so exhausted and hungry and sick. “We’ll give you a towel and some blankets after you tell us what we want to know!”

After they leave, Hector tries to shake himself dry, but it’s no use - he’s soaked and freezing slowly. Charlie’s voice from SERE training gently reminds him: _Think warm thoughts._

Right. Warm thoughts. He lays down on the ground, curls himself up in the smallest ball he can possibly manage, and lets his memory take over.

_There’s nothing quite like sloppy drunk kisses, that never seem to fail in making him forget all of the terrible things he’s been forced to do, and transport him back to a time when things were simpler and he was naïve._

_When Charlie pulls away from him with a smirk on his face, he wants to pull him right back, never let him go, never let them leave this room – god only knows where they’ll end up tomorrow or in a month or a year – but he doesn’t, merely watches him from his vantage point of the bed, turning on the radio._

_A bubbly pop song comes spilling out from the speakers, and it doesn’t fit but neither of them care, because it has the beat that Charlie wants. “Oh god, you’re not really gonna-“_

_“Oh, yeah!” Charlie laughs, and that’s when his hips start to sway, and Hector can feel the warmth starting to spread a little lower, a little low…_

_Charlie grasps the edges of his shirt, inching it up over his skin as he dances, exposing the tattoo around his belly button that Hector wants to trace with his tongue, slowly pulling it over his head and ruffling his curls._

_It’s all so painfully slow; Hector supposes that’s why they call it a ‘strip_ tease _’, but everything prior to this moment between them has been fast paced and frantic, and it takes all his effort not to pin the other man down and rip off all his clothes._

_There’s a part of him that wonders if that’s what Charlie wants him to do, but if it is, Hector refuses to give him that satisfaction, keeping himself controlled even as his need intensifies._

_Charlie’s working on his jeans now, unfastening the button and pulling down his zipper bit by bit…his thumbs hooking under his waistband on both sides of his hips to start its descent…_

_And suddenly Charlie is stepping out of the jeans, wearing nothing but a pair of boxers. The song changes to another, and Hector realizes that this all lasted over the course of about three minutes, which, after all, is quite a long time merely to undress oneself, although not quite as long of a time as it felt. He opens his mouth to speak, feels the sudden dryness of his throat and settles instead for licking his lips and swallowing hard, as Charlie smirks and lets the last piece of clothing fall._

_All Hector can say is, “God, you’re so hot,” in a voice so raspy he feels like he should be a little ashamed._

_“Right the point, hm, Williams?”_

_“Well we can’t all be poetic geniuses, Carlito…”_

_Charlie’s crawling onto his lap now, as he laughs a little, cradling Hector’s head in his hands and gently rubbing his cheek with his thumb. “Nice to know you think so highly of my poetry…” He murmurs against the other man’s lips, as Hector reaches up to caress Charlie’s warm, bare skin..._

The door opens just a crack, and unfolded clothes are thrown in haphazardly, but they seem to be dry and clean. Hector’s hands still feel hot as he pushes himself up off the ground to dress himself, slowly and stiffly.

*

At this point, Hector doesn’t even react to the sound of the metal door slamming against the wall; it’s become normal now, nothing but white noise. He can’t help but vaguely wonder if it’ll be a repeat round with the tub of water or if they’ve come up with something new at this point, not even bothering to fight the hands that grab him by the arm to pull him into an upright position.

“Hector? Oh god…” Those hands are now checking his pulse, pressing against his forehead to feel the fever hot skin, and Hector opens his eyes just enough to see _him_ , Charles Grey, _Carlito_ , hovering above him with worry and fear in his deep brown eyes. “Talk to me, man. Can you walk?”

“Are you real?” Hector gasps out, his voice edged and worn from disuse. He doesn’t really mean to ask it, but he’s so light headed he has no filter, reaching out to grasp Charlie’s arm, his uniform, _anything,_ just to feel him underneath his fingertips as tangible proof of his existence.

The sadness that reflects in Charlie’s eyes at this question is quickly smothered as he’s forced to put his emotions aside to finish the mission – _to save me,_ Hector thinks to himself, already imagining all his teammates in a side room, huddled around a board with blueprints and photographs of the area and his terrorists taped onto it, quiet with the gravity of the situation – and gently touches Hector’s face, rubbing circles into the skin. “Of course I am. And I’m here to break you out of this joint. I have a better place in mind instead, with softer beds and better food.”

Without a second though, Hector forces himself onto his unsteady legs, dizzy but mobile, leaning too heavily on the shorter man, but if Charlie minded he didn’t say anything, supporting him the best he could. “Don’t worry, I got you…”

It’s pure adrenaline and willpower that gets him out of the compound alive, everything a blue-grey blur of cement walls and gunfire, and the second he finds himself in the getaway truck, head in Charlie’s lap, he’s gone from the world; not receded into distant memories, but lulled into a dead dreamless sleep by the comfort of safety surrounding him.

*

“You gave us a scare, Hector,” Charlie starts off a few days after their mistaken tussle, the poetry book half closed in his hands from when he was writing as Hector slept, “The doctor said we got to you just in time. Any longer with that fever and it could’ve killed you.”

“I knew you guys would pull through in the end,” Hector responds, still weak, but with a smile just the same. All he wants is to reach out, and thread their fingers together, to pull Charlie onto the narrow hospital bed to lay on top of him for a while – but it’s the middle of the day, with the staff bustling up and down the hallways every moment.

It’s almost as if Charlie can read the desire in his mind, putting aside his poetry book to pour Hector a glass of water, their fingers brushing as they exchange the glass, and he pretends to drop it a little so the other man would be forced to help support it. Their eyes meet; they both know it’s a façade; the thrill of their secrets a tingle in the back of both of their minds.

“You asked if I was real, you know. You want to talk about that?” The tone Charlie picks is light and airy, noncommittal, a gentle reminder of his willingness to listen if Hector needed to say anything.

Hector thinks about this for a moment, wondering if this is just another thing he needs to compartmentalize and move on from, like so many other traumatic and tragic events. “It’s nothing to worry about,” He starts off, because he thinks that’s what Charlie wants to hear, but he believes it’s the truth anyways, “I just…thought about you a lot, to keep myself from breaking.”

“The whole team, you mean,” Charlie attempts to correct, but Hector softly shakes his head.

“Just you,” he whispers, not daring to speak much louder than this. Charlie opens his mouth to say something, but the door opens instead, this time softly, to admit Bob and Mack, arms full of flowers and what looks suspiciously like real food.

“We let you go on _one_ security detail by yourself and look what happens…”

Charlie glances over at Hector, conveying all of the emotions he needs to in a moment – relief, love, awe – before settling back into his usual routine of carefree smiles and relaxed posture that he’s in around the other members of the unit. But it’s long enough for Hector, who nods just once, briefly, as he wishes they were back in the privacy of their own apartment. “Yeah, well, you end up in a group of amateurs in hostile territory and see how well you fare.”

The group laughs, and Hector is filled with warmth, meeting Charlie’s eyes as he lets himself think of a terrible pop song and the slightly bitter taste of a little too much alcohol.


End file.
